A Desperate Lingerie Bargain

Rhea’s POV

“Shut up!” Meg draws in a harsh, ragged gasp, her eyes widening to the size of saucers. “Are you serious? You went to Silas Vance’s VIP suite? As in *the* Silas Vance?”

Her voice rings out so loudly across the campus grounds that a few students turning the corner pause to look in our direction. Panic spikes hot and fast in my chest. I lunge forward, nearly tackling her shoulder into the soft grass, my hands scrambling to physically cover her mouth.

“Keep your voice down!” I hiss, but she twists away, dodging my grasp with a frantic, buzzing energy.

“How can I possibly keep it down?” she whisper-shouts, sitting up and brushing grass clippings from her jeans. “My best friend went to his hotel room last night and waited until right this very second to tell me!”

I sink back against the thick, rough bark of the oak tree, pulling my textbook to my chest like a shield. Meg works as a waitress at Caldwell Resorts, the exact place the engagement party took place. She knows better than anyone the kind of terrifying power a man like Silas Vance holds over our world.

“The whole encounter happened incredibly fast,” I confess, rubbing my aching temples. “I drank way too much champagne, and my emotions were a wrecked, drunken blur. I barely processed it myself before the rest of the night crashed down on me.”

Meg’s teasing demeanor vanishes. She leans in, her brow furrowing with sudden concern. “What else happened?”

I swallow the hard lump forming in my throat. I tell her the rest of my horrific night. I spare no detail, letting the ugly truth spill out—how Declan pulled me aside into the shadows, how he smugly offered to pay off my father’s crushing five-million-dollar debt under one disgusting condition. He wanted me to be his secret mistress while he married someone else.

Meg’s jaw unhinges. Pure fury flashes in her dark eyes.

“The nerve of that prick!” she spits, ripping a handful of grass from the ground and tossing it aside. “How dare he! He publicly rejects you, humiliating you in front of the entire pack, and then demands you become his little whore in the shadows? He has zero shame.”

“I sit here and I don't know what to do, Meg,” I whisper, feeling a paralyzing weight of defeat settle over my tired shoulders. “There is no realistic way for me to secure five million dollars. I am completely out of options.”

A heavy silence falls between us. The distant chatter of students fades as my thoughts spiral into a dark, hopeless pit. But when I glance back up, the anger on Meg’s face has faded. A slow, nervous smile creeps across her lips. I know that look.

“You said Silas gave you his personal shirt to wear?” she asks, her voice dropping a register.

I nod slowly. “Yeah. Because my dress tore.”

Meg grabs my arm, her fingers digging into my skin. “Isn’t it obvious, Rhea? Silas is genuinely into you. Why else would he hand over his clothing? He wanted to leave his possessive, mint-scented scent lingering on your skin.”

“Meg, you have lost your mind,” I argue, pulling my arm back. “There is nothing to it.”

“I work the VIP floors all the time,” she insists, leaning closer, her eyes bright with a wild, dangerous idea. “I have seen gorgeous women throw themselves at his feet. He is notoriously ruthless and picky. In all my time waitressing in the city, you are the first woman he has ever offered such a thing to.”

I shake my head, frantic to deny the theory. “He gave me a shirt because I was half-naked in a hallway! And the kiss… I was hurting. I was desperate to get back at Declan for his betrayal. I had too much to drink.”

Meg smirks, a knowing glint in her eye. “You need to use this rare leverage to your absolute advantage.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you still have that seductive red lingerie you purchased specifically for your upcoming wedding night?” she asks. “Pay Silas a private visit. Make him an offer he simply cannot refuse.”

Her scandalous suggestion rings in my ears, freezing the blood in my veins. I know deep down it is a terrible, reckless idea. Offering my body to the most intimidating man in our world in exchange for millions of dollars sounds like a massive mistake.

But later that night, pacing the floor of my bedroom, I cannot shake her words. The house feels suffocating. Every time I walk past my mother's door, I can hear her muffled sobs. She has locked herself away again, consumed by severe isolation and the fresh trauma of her visits to my father in the pack's damp, unforgiving prison. We are drowning under this massive debt. If I do not do something drastic, we will lose our home, our status, and our freedom.

By the time the morning sun bleeds through my window, my mind is set.

I push past the deep heartache radiating in my chest. I open my bottom dresser drawer and pull out the delicate, fiery red lingerie. It was meant for Declan. It was meant for a night of love. Now, it is a desperate bargaining chip. I swallow my heavy shame and slide the sheer, lacy fabric over my bare skin. The underwire lifts my breasts, and the delicate straps dig slightly into my shoulders. The contrast of the vivid red against my pale flesh feels illicit, like I am painting a target on my own body. It fits perfectly, hugging every curve just right, but instead of feeling beautiful, I feel a nervous sweat gathering at the base of my neck.

I grab a long, heavy trench coat from my closet, wrapping it tightly around my body to conceal my near-nakedness. I tie the belt secure at my waist. I leave my hair down in loose waves and apply makeup, making my features pop.

The ride to the city center passes in a blur of anxiety mixing with daring resolve. I step out onto the pavement and march straight into the towering, famous Silas Vance Corporation building.

The pristine lobby is a sprawling masterpiece of cold marble, towering pillars, and sleek glass. A massive silver logo gleams behind the main reception desk, a stark reminder of the astronomical wealth this man possesses. My heels click against the polished floor, the rhythmic sound echoing through the cavernous, intimidating space. Behind the desk, a stern receptionist types on her keyboard. She barely spares me a single glance as I approach.

“Good morning,” I say, keeping my voice polite yet firm. “I request to see Silas Vance.”

The receptionist stops typing. She looks up with unamused, bitter eyes, scanning my trench coat with obvious disdain.

“Do you have a prior appointment?” she asks flatly.

“No, but—”

“Look, I do not have time for this,” she snaps aggressively, cutting off my words with a harsh wave of her hand. “Countless women come in here demanding to see him. I am going to tell you exactly what I tell the rest of them. Mr. Vance is an incredibly busy man. He has no time or patience to deal with endless fangirls.”

Before I can even react to her harsh rejection, a deep, booming, authoritative voice echoes through the entire room, vibrating right down into the marrow of my bones.

“And what gives you the right to turn away those who come to see me?”